Are we?
by Lotharel
Summary: A case forces Sherlock to take things to a new level with John... Marriage. Shame he never told John about it first. Soon the two find themselves submerged into something much deeper than it all first appeared; both with the case and their relationship. Johnlock/ hate crime/ kidnap and torture.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: First Sherlock fic. I'm looking forward to writing this one so I hope I'm doing it some justice. Tell me what you think?**

**Disclaimer obviously.**

**Well, I wrote this rather late... or early, depending :) and not to mention I don't have a beta reader so apologies for mistakes in advance. **

* * *

Are We?

Chapter 1

In light of things, John should have realised that he was long overdue an upset- not anything common, like a miss placed tenner or a broken kettle, oh no; he was talking about the type of disarray that could only come from living with Sherlock Holmes. It had after all been a slow week, not boring or dragged out, just slow, calm and peaceful as if the whole city had stepped down a gear and mutually agreed that John Watson needed a damn break; the surgery had been closed for a week and the criminals seemed to have momentarily reformed, well mostly- only once had the crime fighting duo found themselves on the trail of a vicious murderer, pelting it down London's back streets and weaving through the dark underbelly in a high speed chase... which as it had transpired hadn't really been that 'high speed' given that their suspect had no legs. Still, it was the calmest week John had had the pleasure of in a _long _time, and best of all? Best of all was that Sherlock wasn't moping, screeching, shooting or insulting anything or for that matter any_one_. In fact he was the epitome of calm, just like the week itself he seemed to have spontaneously taken a chill pill, he happily came and went from the flat at frequent intervals, aiming a smile at his flat mate when ever they happened to pass, and even once making him a cup of tea- not a very nice cup of tea, but a cup of tea none the less. This itself would have sent alarm bells ringing in any normal persons head, but John (who was pretty sure he couldn't be classed as normal, and maybe not even completely stable in the mental compartment) dutifully ignored it all in favour of blissful ignorance.

And so when John woke on the sixth day of his peacefulness with a heavy weight in his stomach, he just knew the calm was all going to torn from from his clutch, tossed into a pile of crap and then promptly tossed at an industrial sized fan. Groaning in pre-emptive despair the doctor ran a hand down his lined face before pulling himself from the warm cocoon of his bed, relinquishing his safe haven and preparing himself for whatever may lay ahead. Pulling on a pair of bottoms John tentatively made his way towards his door, pulling it open with slight hesitation and listening for signs of a sulking consulting detective, starting down the first few steps John was pleased to hear, or not hear that is, gun shots, ringing shouts of 'BORED' or the bangs and clangs and putrid smells of another wayward experiment... in fact it seemed almost too quite, too empty and somehow John suspected that he would not find his flat mate stretched out on the couch with three nicotine patches while he strolled his mind palace either, John doubted that Sherlock had even come back last night. "Sherlock?" John shouted into the silence anyway as he reached the living room, though to be honest he didn't know why he bothered, even if the man was in his room, it was unlikely he would reply. Shaking his head John pushed down the tiny niggle of worry and stepped into the kitchen, telling himself that he was thankful for his flatmates absence as he flicked the kettle on (after checking it for questionable substances of course, he always did after the body hair incident...) and convinced himself that he would have at least one more quiet day in.

* * *

"Have you done it? Of course you have, give it to me." Sherlock stalked into his brothers office, flouncing onto the hideous leather buttoned couch that cost far more than its worth, all the while shooting glares at the straight backed Mycroft. Throwing his hand out and snapping his fingers in an impatient gesture, Sherlock snapped "Come now Mycroft, I'm on a schedule. Some of us don't have the luxury of sitting around and eating endless amounts of chocolate confectionery"

Mycroft, who had barley batted an overworked eyelid at his younger brothers antics, allowed himself an eye roll (Honestly, as if his brother had every cared for a schedule) at Sherlock's words. Opening the top draw of his desk he pulled out a Manila folder, the type that every government everywhere seemed to have an unhealthy obsession with and an endless supply of, and gracefully, in the way that only a Holmes could, flung in across his desk towards the younger man. "Are you sure, _brother dear, _that it is a schedule that has you so wound up. Perhaps it is simply the irrepressible joy of the occasion?" Mycroft ridiculed with a knowing look towards the file, knowing his brother would rise to the bait.

Sherlock snorted as he unfolded himself from the couch and made for the file "I can assure you _brother_ that it is merely for a case." Sherlock's sneered as his glare increased "And I am _not_ wound up" he huffed, and looked to all the world as if he was once step away from stamping his foot.

"Quite an extent to go to for '_merely a case'_" Mycroft retorted, a simpering smirk working its way onto his face.

Sherlock huffed an angry breath, crossed his arms and as the personifications of petulance said "It's an important case." Even with his gaze averted Sherlock could tell that the smirk on his brothers face was growing. He could _hear _it. Bastard.

"Well, you'll find all the documents are in order." Mycroft finalised with a nod to the file, his hands coming to fold beneath his chin and his elbows on the desk. Sherlock nodded stiffly and turned to sweep from the room. "Oh, and Sherlock?" Sherlock came up short, his head inclining towards Mycroft, though he didn't quite face him. "I do so hope that Dr. Watson _knows _of your plan?" Sherlock didn't answer, storming from the room. The door slamming behind him.

* * *

John sipped the last of his tea, one hand absently brushing at the leftover crumbs off his lap. The comforting sounds of Mrs Hudson pottering around in her flat below put him at ease. The morning was good; it was warm and bright, but with the window thrown open an alleviating breeze was blowing through and despite the still present niggling in the back of his mind, John managed to put himself at relative ease. Lowering his mug to the side table the doctor let his mind wander once more to his absent flat mate, surely he didn't have a case? No, he would have asked John along... Perhaps it was an experiment? Yes, that sounded right John though with a nod, and it would certainly explain all his odd behaviour lately. Reaching out and grabbing the folded paper lain strewn across the foot rest John settled himself back into his plush chair, union jack cushion stuffed in his back as he shoved the detective once more from his mind because after all, what could Sherlock's plans have to do with him?

The day had progressed nicely in John's opinion; it was slow, lazy and he had managed to write up a whole blog update by lunch time. The sun was peaked in the sky and John was once again lowering himself into his ever faithful chair, fresh brew clasped in his hands when the front door slammed, the sound was followed by quick footfalls as the visitor took the steps two at a time. Relinquishing his tea John gave it a sorrowful look as he placed it on the table and turned his head to the door just as the absent detective swooped into the room. Looking him over, John noticed the beige file in his clutch. "Been busy?" he asked in way of greeting, raising his gaze to meet Sherlock's. Sherlock, in answer simply nodded, stripping himself from his coat lithely. Why he insisted on wearing it in the height of summer John would never know, to be honest he was surprised the younger man didn't need to be surgically removed from the damned thing. "Got a case?" he tried instead, wholly expecting a negative response, probably backed up by logical reasoning and creative insults as to why (probably by the state of his shoes and his index finger) that he obviously didn't have a case.

"Yes, actually. Rather an interesting one." Well not the answer he was expecting... John frowned, Sherlock never went a case alone any more, especially when John had a day of. (not that it particularly bother the detective if John did happen to be working... or on a date) "Oh, ok." there wasn't much else John to say.

Sherlock sank into a kitchen chair, laying the folder out before him. Taking the papers in hand he quickly shuffled through them, his gaze trailing up and down before nodding resoundingly, as if he'd found his answers, and perhaps he had John thought from his place in the sitting room where he was sat twisted in his chair watching his friend. Perhaps he'd already solved the case, perhaps it was so simple he hadn't even felt the need to include John in something so 'dull'. Giving himself one of those resounding nods, John turned and started back in on his cuppa. "I'll be back shortly, need to follow up on some leads." or not, John thought with disdain as the consulting detective rose from his place, mobile in hand and flowed from the room. "The case?" John asked pointlessly. Sherlock 'hmmmd' in a way that stated his profound observations of John's stupidity. "Anything I can help with?" John prodded, he'd never had to push to be on a case before he thought briefly with scorn.

Sherlock turned to John. His retreat halted as he took in the doctor. It was silent for a beat before he declared "Not as of yet" and continued his exit, his eyes tearing from John's in a way that almost made him feel abandoned. Once again taking the steps two at a time, Sherlock reached the door and John heard as it was thrown open, however the conventional slam of a door closing never came, and for a moment John thought the git had forgotten until a shout came up the stairs. "Oh, and John?"

"Yes..." John asked hesitantly. Sherlock's tone of voice more that enough to set him on edge.

"We're married." and there was the slam. For a moment John could only sit in the silence of the flat, his mouth working a good impression of a fish before he thought dumbly

'Are we?'


	2. Chapter 2

Are we?

Chapter 2

Wow. I am sorry! Basically I decided to post this story in the first place because I though I would have a quiet holiday and planned on having at least bi-weekly updates... That didn't work out. Well, I suppose these things happen... right? Again, so sorry! Second chapter? Enjoy. R&R.

blah disclaimer blah. Also apologies for mistakes, they're all my own...

* * *

John managed about 30 seconds of utter disbelief before he shot from his chair, unwittingly knocking the small circle table off it's feet, the empty mug atop it smashing against the floor- though John paid it no mind as he tore from the room, and like Sherlock before him took the stairs two at a time, his shorter legs felt more of a strain at the actions but like the table, John didn't spare it a thought. The only thing John could think was that obviously either Sherlock or himself had finally lost it because there way no way he heard what he thought he had heard, besides, he was pretty sure he would remember if he got married, especially if it was Sherlock he had supposedly married. Pulling the front door of 221 open John started "Sherlock! What the h-" stepping down onto the street with a quick sweep showed that the detective was no where to be seen, jammy git must have used those creepy taxi summoning powers to make a get away. Moaning his frustration to the sky John turned on his heel, pulling out his phone as he dragged himself back up the stairs. Maybe he shouldn't have been quite so exuberant in his earlier decent he reflected ruefully as his leg twinged in complaint. Hitting the speed dial for the Great Git he let out a string of curses as it went to voice mail. Trying again saw the same results and it was evident that Sherlock wasn't going to answer. "Sherlock? What the fuck?" he said following the tone "Answer your bloody phone you idiot!" he demanded of the machine "I swear you better have been having me on, prat! Answer me. Give me an explanation. Else I'll bin your collection of spleens." With that he rung off, tossing the mobile to the couch as he lingered in the door way, one hand resting on his hip as he thought for a moment. 'Sherlock had to have been having him on, right? The man was married to his work!', and didn't that always put John to despair, 'unless it _was_ for his work' he considered carefully 'Sherlock was known for going to any length for a case... but no. surely he wouldn't go this far?' John moaned again, this time however it held more dejection that displeasure 'he didn't know! And obviously Sherlock didn't feel it necessary to disclose anything until _he_ felt fit!'

A weary sigh emitted as the doctor turned to the rest of the sitting room and took in the mess; the table lay on its side, the mug fallen also and the content soaking lazily into the frayed rug. Making his way over he unhurriedly set the table right and picked up the thankfully undamaged mug, John wasn't sure they could spare another mug, what with Sherlock seemingly making a bi-weekly ritual of destroying their crockery, and frankly he wasn't even going to bother to try a mop up the spilled tea, god knows the poor carpet has had a hell of a lot worse spilt on it. Wandering to the kitchen, John set the mug down by the sink. He turned his back to the counter, leaning his elbows against it as he took a moment to rest. Just as he was deliberating on whether or not to try Sherlock's mobile again, John took note of what he was seeing... there, laying innocently on the kitchen table as if it was just another piece of useless clutter was the Manila folder. Mentally scolding himself, John grabbed it. Undoubtedly it was left for him purposefully, it was just like Sherlock to piss off and leave evidence as a form of damage control in an attempt to avoid John's wrath, or perhaps he knew John would need to see the evidence regardless in order to believe it. Reminiscent of Sherlock, John sank into the kitchen chair and took out the documents- he however didn't nod, nor was he particularly calm as he looked over the document. His attention skipping between the font reading 'Certificate of Marriage' and both his and Sherlock's signatures. And it was definitely there, and it was definitely real; his own signature glared right up at him from it's place next to Sherlock's, looking comfy and right at home on the official document. John once more, as was becoming a habit, moaned. This time however he wasn't entirely sure why... he tried to convince himself that it was because the anything but innocent piece of paper served as proof for Sherlock's foolish scheme, but even as he thought it, he struggled to quash the stirrings of something akin to desire in his gut.

* * *

_The sitting room was innocent enough, warm colours on the walls and a deep, thick carpet on the floor, black out curtains were drawn across the bay window and a couple of lamps standing on side tables cast a contented glow throughout the room; it set the mood for a quite night in, and cuddle on the couch and a movie. Though it only took a glance to see that a cuddle on the couch was not what was going on here._

"_Do you understand now?" Spoke an unremarkable man, his freckled fingers running carelessly across the sharp edge of his bone handled knife as he looked down on his visitor. His head held a few to many bald patches for his age and his eyes were lined by thick crow feet and deep, malignant bags that hung heavily. "Do you understand your mistakes?" he continued, head tilting as he stepped over the mangled corpse separating them and came to crouch in front of his guest, plastic sheet crinkling underfoot as he went. His pale blue eyes held something- it wasn't anything blatantly evil like all those story book villains, nor were they particularly deep, dark or stormy- they were just eyes. Plain, commonplace eyes. And that was exactly the issue, you pass these eyes everyday, on the street, on the tube and in your local Costa. Never is a second thought given to these completely unremarkable eyes, never an inkling as to what lay behind them._

_Playing witness to the eyes was there latest victim, breath hitched as she struggled to keep her head above the vicious waves of panic, tears marred her cheeks and swamped her face, small trails of saliva had escaped her gagged mouth as she cried helplessly. She had stopped struggling a while ago- not long after she had watched her love choke nosily on her own blood- he hands and feet were tied too well._

"_Well do you?" the unremarkable man spoke once more. His voice full of question and one eyebrow raised. The knife hovered between his fingers. So close. It was so close. Tearing her eyes away from the weapon the woman looked into those eyes, her head nodding frantically. He laughed. A genuine smile gracing his flecked face and he lifted the knife, drawing it closer to her face- the genuine smile curled into a smirk as she pushed backwards into the couch for escape, fear filled eyes slamming shut as she cried a beg and fat tears forced their way out, clinging to her lashes. Her breathing was so much fasted and the man relished the moment of power that surged though him, causing him to shiver. The knife trailed with a gentle touch from her forehead downwards, coming to rest on the material across her mouth, with a quick smooth action the gag severed and fell from it's place. He chuckled to himself when she took a breath to relax from the imminent danger. _

"_I want to hear you. I want to hear you say it!" his low snarl made her flinch and another moment of power was registered as the woman obeyed._

"_Yes. Ye-yes. I-I underssstand my mistakes. Please, please. They were mistak-es. Please, god please don't kill me. I understand. Please just- please don't." She begged, her voice a screeching mess as she pleaded for her life, telling him the words he wanted to hear. _

_The killer nodded solemnly, as one would when bad news was confirmed but at the same time duty was to be upheld and the show must go on. "Good girl." he praised quietly, the hand free of the blade coming to stroke her blotchy cheek._

"_You're going to let me go?" She asked desperately, her breaths shuddering with every intake. Once again the killer cocked his head, his mouth forming the words back at her, testing them on his lips as if the sentence had never even occurred to him. "Let you go?" he uttered almost tentatively. There was a beat of silence before he threw his head back and bellowed with mirth, the hand dropped from her face and came to wipe at his dry eyes pretentiously. "Oh no, no no!" he laughed. "I can't let you go." as suddenly as it came, all humour ebbed from his features, that grave sobriety once more taking hold._

_Taking back the gag he forced it onto her face, trying it roughly. It was even tighter now that it had been cut and the delicate skin around her mouth was split and raw with the pressure. Her cries reverberated anew into the house as she bucked against him in one last futile attempt at escape. _

"_Now, now." the man soothed "If you understand your mistakes, surely you must understand your punishment?" _

* * *

John, for the fifth time that day tried, unsuccessfully, to sit calmly in his chair. His back was uncomfortably straight, his shoulders painfully tense and his fingers tapped against the arm. It wasn't long before he was once more pulling himself to his feet and pacing the flat, picking up books, last weeks paper and even having a fiddle with Sherlock's latest experiment, damn the bastard and his complaints, it was either that or hunt down the detective and punch him in the face, John reasoned. 'No' repeating his mental mantra, taking a steadying breath as he did so 'we like Sherlock. We cannot hurt Sherlock' and even if the git did cross a major line, it wasn't as if Sherlock did this on his own. Oh no, John wasn't stupid! (despite what a couple of certain Homles' thought) the stench of big brother was all over this, not to mention the signature on the ma-Nope, he definitely wasn't ready to go there yet, on the _certificate_ proclaiming _Mycroft Holmes_ as first witness- yeah, that was a pretty big give away...

Oh god, it was legal (well apart from the minor detail of fraud...). They were... Sherlock was... John Watson was married to Sherlock bloody Holmes!

John's stomach flipped, he could safely say that that was not something he ever thought he would say- that _he _was Sherlock's, and _Sherlock _was his... Except he wasn't was he? Not really anyway. It was for a case, a few weeks- a month at most and it would be over, (not that it was anything to begin with, John reminded himself) reduced to nothing more than a bad memory. Well at least it would make for a good post on his blog, John chuckled nervously to himself, though actually it didn't really sound like a chuckle at all, more like a strangled cry.

Wandering back over to his chair, he sat and nodded assuredly to himself, soon this _ridiculous_ marriage would be void, Sherlock would delete the whole débâcle, leaving John as always to pick up the pieces. John attempted a scoff, after all it wasn't like there was going to be any pieces... it was just a bloody case.

Just as John was comfortably on his way to convincing himself of this he was startled by the ring of his mobile. Huffing, John once more heaved himself up, he felt heavier than usual, and made his way towards the couch. Fishing around in the worn fabric for the discarded phone, John felt a peculiar rush when the ID flashed '_Sherlock' _

'right' he thought with a determined jaw set 'time to set the git right' accepting the call, John pulled the phone to his ear, geared up he took a readying breath.

"_Sherlock, _just what the fuc-"

"John, no time. Crime scene. Level 8. Possibly 9. Location texted. Come at once!" and just like that the wanker hung up. Leaving John, mouth still half open and stood frozen with the phone clenched at his ear as his anger suddenly mounted once more. Well, John guessed there was only one thing for him to do, and with that the irate doctor stuffed the phone in his pocket and grabbed his coat as he headed down the stairs and out the door, all the while mentally repeating '_We like Sherlock, we cannot hurt Sherlock_...'


End file.
